


Whiteout

by glocktopus



Category: Splatoon
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Power Outage, Pre-Relationship, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 22:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17857946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glocktopus/pseuds/glocktopus
Summary: The power is out.





	Whiteout

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to nica and [salticidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salticidae/pseuds/salticidae) for beta-reading!

The snow falls down in flurries, following the direction of the wind until it hits the ground. It clumps together quickly, drifting into corners where the roads meet the buildings, creating shadowed mounds backlit by the blue-white glow of streetlights and slow-moving cars. 

The sky is a milky grey, almost bright despite the hour, and even though the cold from the window chills his skin through his sweater Eight remains there, entranced by the sight.

“It’s really coming down,” he says. His voice was hushed, as if he spoke any louder, the spell would break and the sky would crack open, revealing the monitors above. “This is...not normal?”

He finally pulls away from the window, letting the blinds fall back into place. Sango is standing in the doorway, holding their phone and scrolling away. “At least Yelle made it home.” Sango says, not looking up at Eight.

“Already? Didn’t the trains stop service an hour ago?”

“She runs fast.”

Eight pulls out his own phone, imagining Agent 4 shuffling through the snow at speed to make it home in the dark. She was definitely the bravest of the three of them. Eight hadn’t been so lucky in terms of making it back to his own house. All the trains in the city had stopped running entirely almost an hour ago, but the line to Pearl and Marina’s neighbourhood had shut down earlier than the other trains. While normally missing the train wouldn’t be an issue, the roads were already too bad for either of them to come pick him up. Emperor and Prince were at their dad’s house for the week, too, so they weren’t an option, either.

He was stuck here with Sango. Overnight.

_It’s not that bad,_ he tells himself. There’s a few new messages in the group chat between him, Pearl, and Marina, mostly telling him to be careful and polite and not to use up all of Sango’s toilet paper. _We actually talk to each other now and they haven’t tried to kill me again since the Metro. We spent all night having fun before the storm. It’ll be fine._

Right. Fine.

Sango mumbles something about turning up the thermostat before wandering off and Eight scrolls to the bottom of the chat. A new photo from Marina, of the Octotrooper plushie on his bed. He feels a little swoop of dread in his stomach at the sight - he’d nearly forgotten.

**DJ_Hyperfresh >** Are you gonna be okay without the lil guy for one night, Eight?

**8ctoshot >** ...I should be. Thank you for checking.

**DJ_Hyperfresh >** Okay. If you need anything...well, I can’t do much to be there for you in person, but it’ll be fine if you need to wake me up in the middle of the night to talk.  
**DJ_Hyperfresh >** We were kind of hoping your first sleepover with Agent 3 would be in under more...controlled circumstances.

**8ctoshot >** Everything is going well so far. I will let you know if I require assistance later.

**DJ_Hyperfresh >** Well, remind me that we need to work on your written Inklish when you get home. You’re still a bit too formal!  
**DJ_Hyperfresh >** But...really. Take care out there, Eight. We love you.

“Should be a little warmer in here now.” Sango shuffles back into the bedroom, holding a messily-folded bundle of blankets under one arm. Eight quickly tucks his phone back into his pocket. “These might smell a bit dusty, they’ve been in the closet for a while. Got you a thicker sweater, too.” They toss the whole bundle onto their bed and stretch briefly before leaning over the pile, still talking. 

“News says the temperature’s expected to keep dropping all night, so everyone needs to stay bundled under their heat lamps.” Eight watches as Sango roots around the nest of blankets until they extract some cords - and that sweater they’d mentioned earlier - untangling them until they’ve got an assortment of what Eight realises are heated blankets laid out and plugged in. He’s so wrapped up in watching Sango work that he barely catches what the Inkling is saying.

“-hm?”

“Said you can sleep here tonight. I’ll take the couch.”

“Wa- are you sure? I can take the floor, I’m used to-“ His protest is cut off into splutters as Sango shoves the sweater at his face, expression impassive as usual.

“Just take the bed. There’s a heat pad under the mattress cover, too. You’ll be warm all night.”

Eight pops his head through the hole of the sweater, trying to wrestle his arms into the right holes - it’s a little big on him width-wise, but comes up a little short around his middle. He takes great pains to not think about the fact that he’s currently wearing some of Agent 3’s clothes right now. “And your couch is...also heated, yes?”

“Got a heat lamp. Plenty of blankets. Cold doesn’t bother me as much as it does the city Inklings.” Sango rotates their shoulder around, looking past Eight to the door. Right, they'd mentioned they were from out in the country - Eight had never left Inkopolis city limits once he’d arrived, but he’d been picking things up from the little scraps of Sango’s personal life they’d let slip sometimes. It must be colder out there, so far beyond the grid and the crush of day-to-day marine life.

“Spare brushes in the bathroom under the sink,” Sango is saying, snapping Eight out of his musings. “Should be extra toilet paper too, if you end up needing any. I’ll be in the next room over. Just...shout or something if you need me. You good?”

Eight can tell that Sango is hoping he’ll say _yes, I’m fine, go ahead and get some rest,_ but life on the surface has proven to be far more complicated than Eight ever anticipated, so he steels himself and asks, 

“Actually, do you have, ah...something soft, I could sleep with…?”

“Something soft- what, like a plush toy?” Sango doesn’t look surprised, or annoyed- or _anything_ , for that matter; their expression rarely changes. Callie had told Eight and Yelle in private one day, after training, that Sango had always been like that - _the unflappable Agent 3_ \- but the facial paralysis from whatever Tartar had done simply made it worse. It certainly didn’t help the guilt Eight felt gnawing at him whenever he looked at the side of Sango’s face for too long.

“...think I’ve got something like that, actually. Hold on.”

“Really?”

“S’not your trooper, and you gotta promise me you’ll be careful with it, but it’s just for the night so I’m not too concerned.” Sango pulls out one of the drawers attached to the bottom of their bed frame; the top portion of the drawer’s contents seems to be a solid layer of handwritten letters. Sango shoves them aside and keeps digging, letters cascading to the floor.

“You’re making a mess,” Eight mumbles, grabbing the fallen envelopes and neatly stacking them as Sango keeps looking for...whatever it is they’re looking for. He almost wants to tell them to stop, it’s not such a big deal if he’s doesn’t have something to hold while he sleeps, he can handle the nightmares on his own, now, but...

...can he, if those nightmares are about Agent 3?

Eight looks down at the letters. The Inklish is in a dialect he’s unfamiliar with, written too casually for him to fully understand, but the characters for Sango’s name are on all of them. Are these from their family, out in the countryside? Wishing them safety and luck on their own in the big city?

“Here.”

Eight looks up. Sango is holding out a fuzzy clownfish, the bands of black and white and yellow clearly delineated by multicolored thread. Eight wordlessly takes it, passing Sango the now nearly-stacked letters as he does.

“It’s...cute.”

“...yeah.”

Sango shuts the drawer and they both stand. Eight may be the guest, but it’s Sango who looks misplaced somehow - a stranger in their own bedroom.

“‘Kay. Gonna go now. Be in the other room if you need me.” Sango backs up to the doorway, fingers on the light switch. They don’t exactly watch Eight scramble into their bed, but nod at his thumbs-up for flicking the lights off. A nightlight in the bathroom automatically comes on and the bottom half of the room turns a soft blue as Eight bundles down, curling around the clownfish. It’s not the Octotrooper, but it will do.

“Night,” Sango says, from the half-closed door.

“Good night,” Eight replies, trying to will himself a dreamless sleep.

\---

What wakes Eight up is first the lack of sound, and then the cold.

The background hum of electricity is gone, jolting him from unconsciousness into alarm in seconds. In Octo Valley, total silence like this meant even the backup generators had failed, and it was only a matter of moments before critical systems began to shut down and cave-ins would begin. He needed to warn Sango...

...And it's as soon as he wriggles out of the nest he’d made of Sango’s blankets that the cold hits, like an actual physical blow. Eight gasps and holds the clownfish to his chest, feeling the adrenaline forcing him into action turning slow and sluggish in the chill. He manages to grab a fistful of still-warm blankets and wrap them around himself before staggering out of the bedroom and into the main room, hoping Sango wasn’t an inksicle already.

A faint glow lights the underside of the Inkling’s face, a sickly image in the dark. Sango is huddled on the side of their couch, wrapped in the massive quilt Eight had seen draped over it earlier and wordlessly scrolling through their phone. He’s not sure if he’s more surprised that they’re awake or that they didn’t notice him stumbling into the room, until he realises that their headphones are on the end table - they probably didn’t even hear him come in; their bad side is angled towards the bedroom door.

“Sango?”

The light from the phone jerks across the room and for a second Eight sees a flash of cyan as Sango whips around to face them, expression eerily blank. The two of them stare at each other in the dark - Eight clutching the clownfish, Sango gripping their phone - before the senior Agent sighs, shoulders slumping.

“...You’re going to freeze. Get over here.”

Sango unwinds the hem of the quilt and motions Eight over. Sluggish, half-panicked thoughts start to form, but the promise of warmth is more powerful than anxiety, and Eight quickly shuffles over and dives into the nest, curling up next to Sango. It’s awkward, trying to get as close to the Inkling as possible without actually touching them, but he manages.

“What’s going on?” He asks, after a long moment of silence. “Is...how long is this going to last?”

“Not too long.” Sango doesn’t take their eyes off their phone. They don’t seem at all bothered by the closeness. “News feed says the Zapfish for this area got too cold and had to be taken offline for emergency care. They’re sending out another one, but the roads are still bad so it’ll be a while.”

“Oh, no,” Eight says, hushed. “That poor Zapfish…”

“It’ll be fine. They’re pretty resilient.” Sango leans over, tilting their phone so that Eight can see the screen. Their shoulders touch and Eight feels himself shudder. From the cold, or from the sudden contact? “‘S’all tips on how to stay warm. More concerned about us than the Zapfish right now. Uh...you _can_ read this, right?”

“Yes,” Eight mutters. He’s suddenly feeling embarrassed, though it’s not really from his lack of Inklish comprehension. He’s starting to realise he’s never _been_ this close to Sango before, except for when he’d had to carry the unconscious Agent out of the Metro, and he’d been a little...preoccupied at the time. Sango smelled sort of like laundry and old sweat. Had they always smelled like that? He certainly hadn’t noticed it before. Was it weird that Eight was smelling them? 

Oh, carp. 

“...Aren’t you worried about the battery running out?”

“Nah. Got a portable charger.”

“Oh. Smart.”

“Mhm.”

Sango flips through the feed one more time before hitting some buttons and opening an app Eight’s seen Pearl and Marina use before. They deftly navigate around, pulling up a profile Eight barely has time to register before scrolling down and playing a video. A cheery-looking anemone greets the audience, her voice and intro music a sudden explosion of noise in the empty stillness of the apartment. Eight startles, nearly whacking Sango upside the head.

“Sorry,” Sango mumbles. “Can’t hear. Got the volume jacked up.” 

They thumb the phone’s volume slider almost all the way down but leave the captions on. The video seems to be some sort of tutorial on how to make a toy out of a sock on your own, with step-by-step instructions provided by the anemone and colour commentary provided by the anemone’s clownfish. The initial shock of the volume aside, it’s...pretty soothing, actually. She has a nice voice, and now that Eight’s warmed up he’s feeling sleepy again, and even the old sweat smell doesn’t seem so awful, and…

Sango makes a soft noise and Eight opens his eyes. He must have drifted off a little, because the tutorial is over and the anemone is displaying the finished sock toy, which is…a very _familiar_ clownfish.

“Ah...wha?” Eight shifts around, limbs feeling syrupy, and pokes the toy Sango had given him out of the quilt nest. Sango inclines their head. “Really?”

“Yeah. Malu sends me most of her stuff, unless she’s doing a giveaway.” There’s a pause, as if Sango is weighing whether or not they want to keep talking. “She’s my sister.”

“Your-“

“She’s adopted.”

“...Oh.”

The next video autoplays. Malu informs them that she’ll be showing them how to make a custom phone case; the clownfish advises that some of the materials being used may require adult supervision. Eight stares at the screen, watching the two move around and bounce jokes off each other; somehow, it feels like he knows _less_ about Sango than he did before the storm hit. He blinks a few times and sighs.

“...Tired?”

“I- yeah. I can get u-“

_“No.”_

Eight looks up, startled by the sharpness of Sango’s tone. It may just be the light of the phone screen throwing off his night vision, but...it almost looks like Sango’s face is a little flushed?

“‘S too cold still,” they say. “Bed’s gonna be like ice if you go back now. Better to stay here.”

“...Then where are _you_ going to sleep?”

“Not tired. Just gonna watch videos until the power comes back on.”

Eight stares. Sango stares back, the faint flush still on their face. Does that mean...Sango is going to stay on the couch while Eight sleeps?

Oh. Hm.

He can’t exactly ask Sango to leave - he already sort of kicked Sango out of their bed, and making them get off the couch too would just be mean, especially with how cold it is, but...can he trust himself to fall asleep, with them right there? What if he has a nightmare? What if he freaks out and attacks them? What if-

“Hey, Eight.” Sango’s tone is soft. “It’s okay.”

Eight takes a deep breath and gives the Inkling a small nod. He shuffles around until he’s sort of half-leaning on Sango’s shoulder and closes his eyes, arms wrapped tightly around the sock-clownfish. He feels Sango shifting next to him for a second, angling the phone away from his face, and then quiet music begins to play.

Eight drifts off.

\---

The next time he wakes up, it’s slowly, and to the feeling of sunlight on his face.

Eight groans and rolls over, the quilt hiking up over his legs. He buries his face into the couch cushion and- _wait_.

Something’s wrong. This isn’t how he fell asleep. There's a distinct lack of old-sweat smell-

“Morning.”

Eight opens an eye. Sango is leaning over the back of the couch, headphones on and hair pinned back from their face. They’ve got a tiny grin going on. 

“Whu…”

“Power came back on about an hour after you fell asleep. They’re still working on the roads, though. I already texted Marina, she won’t be able to come get you until this afternoon. I’m making breakfast now.” 

Sango disappears and Eight stares up at the empty space they left behind, trying to process everything through the grogginess of having just woken up. The power...had come back on after he’d fallen asleep, but Sango hadn’t woken him up or moved him back to the bed?

Did...did they _like_ cuddling with Eight all night?

He quickly shoves that thought out of his mind and pushes himself into a sitting position, the clownfish tumbling out of his lap. He can hear Sango padding around in the kitchen, their off-key humming drifting in and out of hearing as they move around. Eight thinks about getting up and grabbing his phone from Sango’s bedroom to check his own texts, but before he can move the Inkling is back, holding two steaming mugs.

“Hot chocolate,” they say, handing a mug to Eight before plopping down on the couch next to him. “Got some croissants in the oven. It’ll be a bit still.”

“Thanks,” Eight says. The mug is almost too hot to hold; he rotates it around as Sango fishes in between the cushions for the TV remote. Inkopolis News is broadcasting a special about the storm, of course, and the widespread power outages caused by numerous frozen Zapfish. 

_All affected Zapfish are in stable condition,_ the nautilus anchor is saying. The closed captions lag a little behind his words. _We encourage any ectothermic citizens still feeling cold despite restored power to seek immediate medical attention. Road crews are still busy clearing streets; garbage collection and train service is still suspended until conditions are deemed safe-_

“This was a really bad storm, huh.”

“Yeah.” Sango leans forward, messing with some settings on the remote. The captions remain stubbornly behind. “Glad Yelle got home safe before the power went. Glad you stayed over, too.”

Eight splutters into his hot chocolate. “Uhh- well, it’s not like I had any other options!” He sets the mug between his knees and wipes at his mouth, feeling his ears heat up. Last night he was worried about attacking Agent 3, but now he’s more concerned about embarrassing himself in front of them. He was very glad Yelle wasn’t here; he didn’t think he’d be able to survive her teasing right now. “...I appreciate you letting me stay here, though. I, ah. I had fun.”

Sango’s mouth twitches up in a small smile. “Me too.”

In the kitchen, the oven chimes.

**Author's Note:**

> we've had some bad snowstorms around here lately, and that got me thinking about how cold-blooded species like cephalopods might handle being snowed in...
> 
> i'm basing eight's anxiety around having a comfort object while sleeping around my own experiences with ptsd-related nightmares. it's especially difficult when i'm away from home so i always try to keep something soft on hand in case of an emergency.


End file.
